The zaatar’s supper.

His words are like thick smoke

that gets tangled in the lips,

the nose,

the fingers…

like milky and dense smoke

that dulls mind,

reddens eyes

and stuns the ears.

Like harshs whitish smoke

that stains the cloths

and levae footprints on the floor.

They are like a muffled explotion.

Like a yell in silence,

like hawking in the dessert with a broken tongue;

like a blow in the temple;

like a rugged lament.

His words are hot steam that soften the senses.

Because there are sorrows that run through the sound

and don’t need verbs nor conjugations.

those sorrows don’t require prose,

nor adjective, nor adverb

because their gender agrees better

with the blood;

with the open pores

and dilated pupils.

His words, because of that, are like the smoke,

like the steam that through sublimation

changes from being sorrow

to be mood, without touching

the air.

Because in turning his pain into


there was no cry, no fussing,

there was no words, no yelling,

only a packed table

with 12 empty seats.

So far. So close.

So his.

So mine.

The zaatar is chopped and served.

The olive oil is ready to dip bread.

“Come next to me: wife, brothers, kids.

Everything is on the table”.

But his words are smoke.

Cold and White smoke that

like summer clouds fade

leaving him alone in a filled table

with twelve empty seats.

by Nuria tesón